


The Misconception of Large Things

by turkeymagic



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: (but it's just Fernand's murdered family), AU where Fernand lives, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character Death(s), Recovery, Strained Friendships, Unreliable Narrator, character exploration, i can't believe the jesse/fernand tag exists already!!, is it slowburn if you get burned immediately and then spend 20k afraid of fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 15:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turkeymagic/pseuds/turkeymagic
Summary: “Any man would be lucky to - ”“If you continue in this vein, I will attempt to strangle you, reopening my wounds and bleeding out on this bed, which is certainly worth more than both of our lives. Thus if you are truly interested in my survival, I advise that you shut your mouth,” Fernand says.Jesse laughs loudly, though he does elect to spare Fernand from hearing the rest of his sentence. Instead he says, voice fond and deep, “Gods, I’ve missed you,” and it is somehow, impossibly worse.(Fernand survives, unfortunately.)





	1. The Misconception of Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> I can honestly say people did ask for this. You know who you are
> 
> Title's from an Ivory Layne song

The last thing Fernand expects to see as he escapes from the maw of hell is Jesse.

For a second he thinks to himself - this is a mirage, and I am in Mila’s embrace. It can’t be, of course. Mila doesn’t want him; none of the realms do, and blood still seeps through his fingers where the witch had torn through his armor and into his side. Surely that pain would have faded in death.

There are others here too, yelling, words that can’t pierce the veil between life and death. Jesse’s lips move. Maybe his words reach Fernand, except Fernand is still stuck on the fact that Jesse is here, Jesse is in front of him, flesh and blood and sunlight.

“Fernand, Fernand,” Jesse is saying, like he has the right to call Fernand’s name when he hasn’t even seen Fernand in - God, years. He’s too close, draws even closer when Fernand doesn’t move. His eyebrows knit together with concern. He touches Fernand’s arm, and his fingers come away slick with red.

Someone is healing Fernand. Clearly someone who doesn’t know who he is or Fernand suspects they would not bother. Maybe someone spurred on by Jesse’s fretting. Jesse always has deluded himself that he could save Fernand, as if nobility was a beast they could outrun like a witch instead of a corruption within their very blood.

“Fernand,” Jesse repeats, and Fernand fancies he can almost hear the syllables of his name above the blood pounding in his ears, the way his head spins every time he blinks. But Fernand doesn’t know what Jesse’s voice actually sounds like now, barely remembers what it sounded like in pubescence.

He remembers one thing clearly though: that Jesse hadn’t said a thing to Fernand about running away.

Fernand had honestly not expected to see Jesse ever again. He hadn’t let himself imagine it. Of course he’d get the opportunity when it was taking everything he had to keep his eyes open. With Fernand’s luck, it might even be the last chance.

That makes up his mind, and taking a shuddering breath, Fernand draws his fist back and clocks Jesse clean across the jaw.

...

The eve Princess Anthiese is born, Fernand is nine and trying desperately to be older. The palace throws an extravagant celebration in the ensuing weeks, the likes of which Fernand has only attended whenever a royal baby is born. Zofia’s nobility is invited to attend a nightly ball, each one more lavish than the last, and the festivities spill across the entire nation. Neighbors share food and drink, the volume of which is only ever limited to the physical capabilities of the people preparing it. The generous sun blesses the fields with a harvest that almost bubbles from the soil like water from a spring.

Lady Avanna says Goddess Mila has created a heaven on earth. Fernand’s older sister Beatrice conspiratorially tells him strawberries spring fully-formed on the vine, scarlet and delicious, when the goddess walks by.

That, Fernand has his suspicions about, but Bea spends all her free time in the gardens with the new boy their father has hired and also is four years older than him, which she insists makes her right 100% of the time. There are older kids around, but they don't usually talk to Fernand.

Bea tends to ditch Fernand at parties too, which makes him suspect it has something to do with getting older. He’s a little worried that Clive, who is ten this year, will suddenly decide he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. When he whispers that concern to Lady Avanna though, she tells him he isn’t being fair to Clive.

Clive wants to be a knight, and that somehow makes him the most patient and mature person Fernand knows. He even tolerates Aren and Dixon; Fernand loves his little brothers more than the world itself but they have recently figured out what it means to say no to someone, and also how to ignore anyone who says no to _them_. 

Even better, Fernand’s father smiles at Fernand when he recounts his palace misadventures with Clive. The first time, his father had ruffled Fernand’s hair and told him to stay true to his friends, which Bea later said meant Clive came from a good noble family. 

From what Fernand can gather, there are good nobles and there are bad nobles, and it is with this thought in mind that he prowls the palace grounds the second night of Princess Anthiese’s ball.

Why the king has decided to celebrate the birth of a baby during the evening is beyond Fernand, but any chance Fernand can take to prove to his parents he’s old enough to be trusted out of their supervision outdoors is one he’ll take gladly. He clambers atop a stone bench. The landscape of the palace gardens changes at night. Fountains loom higher overhead than when the sun is out; the trees whisper and the wind changes course as if to lure children deeper into the hedges.

Clive and the others are supposed to be hiding, so Fernand pauses in his search when he hears jovial humming. He suspects, at first, it could be a trap, but they are supposed to be playing simple hide-and-seek, not soldiers or tag, nor does Fernand think Clive would play a trick on him.

Interest piqued, Fernand jumps off the bench and follows the song past a tall metal gate clearly intended for appearances rather than practicality, each rail thicker than a fist and set far enough apart from each other that a fully-grown man could squeeze through. Fernand emerges into a spacious courtyard. He knows it can’t possibly be bigger than his manor, but standing at its mouth, it almost looks that way.

In the middle of the courtyard is an old coral tree, its branches stretching fifty different ways toward the stars, and hanging off of one is an unfamiliar boy with a mop of blond curls atop his head. His humming falters as he hoists himself up, grunting at the bark digging into his stomach. Fernand eyes his kicking legs with suspicion. The branch is high enough Fernand doesn’t think he’d come close to grabbing onto it if he leapt, which means falling from it would be gruesome.

But of course, Fernand is old enough not to be afraid of danger. He tells himself that as he marches right up to the coral tree.

“Aren’t you too young to be here by yourself?” he calls.

The boy peered down at Fernand. “Huh?”

“Get down from there before you hurt yourself!” Fernand says.

Laughing, the boy swings his legs more vigorously. The red flowers at the edge of the branch quiver under his bouncing. “I won’t hurt myself! I’m a tree climbing expert.”

Fernand’s eyebrow twitches. “You can’t be an expert. You’re a kid.”

“I’m seven,” says the boy. He leans farther off the branch to inspect Fernand, who puffs his chest out. Seven is definitely still a kid. “Hey, how about I teach you?”

“I don’t need your help,” Fernand tells him, pulling up his sleeves. His formal clothes don’t afford much mobility, and Lady Avanna will probably fuss if he wears holes through the knees of his trousers again. Choosing the path of his ascent carefully, Fernand scales the tree with the grace of someone who has been climbing the king’s trees for years - more escapades Lady Avanna shakes her head at. He finds a secure seat in a branch slightly higher than the kid’s and looks imperiously over. “See?”

“Oh, you’re really good.” The kid beams, more impressed than competitive, and it makes Fernand feel proud and abashed in turn. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Fernand Claremont,” Fernand says, enunciating his family name in the same manner he's heard older boys do.

“I’m Jesse.” Jesse considers Fernand for a second and then mutters his name a few more times under his breath. “Do you have a nickname?”

“Excuse me?” Fernand does not. Sometimes his father calls him Son, or Junior, or some variant of Boy, but Fernand doesn’t think that’s what Jesse is looking for, and besides, Fernand doesn’t really want Jesse to know that.

“It’s just that Fernand is kind of an old name,” Jesse says. “It’s weird.”

“It’s traditional,” Fernand scowls.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Jesse says. “Umm...what do you call a horse that lives next door? A neigh-bor!” He blurts out the answer before Fernand has even had time to realize he’s telling a joke.

“It isn’t fair if you don’t give me time to guess,” he tells Jesse. 

“You may be good at climbing trees, but you’re really bad at listening to jokes,” Jesse says.

“That’s not a real skill,” Fernand protests.

“Fine! Then you tell a joke.”

Fernand thinks for a second. “What do porcupines say when they kiss?”

Dropping his smile for the first time, Jesse scrunches his face in confusion. When he looks back up at Fernand, though, it’s with earnest expectation instead of frustration. “What’s a porcupine?”

“It’s...it’s an animal like this,” Fernand says, tracing a large, vaguely lump-like shape in the air with his hands. “And it’s covered in big spikes.”

“Have you seen one before?” Jesse asks.

“I’ve seen pictures. They don’t live near me,” says Fernand.

Jesse bites his lip as if he’s about to divulge a great secret. “I think I’ve seen one before. It lives under the shed. I thought it was a dog.”

“I doubt it,” Fernand says. “My books say they live on rocks, not in sheds.”

“Just on top of the rock?”

Fernand pauses. It strikes him as not true, even for an animal, to make a nest without any proper shelter, but while he considers himself intelligent, he does not think he’s qualified to question books yet. “I don’t know…”

Jesse makes a brief ‘hm’ sound, like admitting ignorance is an acceptable answer. Fernand supposes there must be a vast amount of things that Jesse doesn’t know, making it a state of default rather than a weakness. “I’m sorry for calling your name weird,” Jesse says to break the silence. “It’s a good weird.”

“Liar,” Fernand says. “It’s whatever. I’m not angry.”

“O.K.” Jesse beams. There are gaps in his smile where he’s missing teeth, but that doesn’t stop him. “Are we friends now?”

Fernand fidgets on his branch. He doesn’t quite understand the exact reasoning behind it yet, but he knows there are friends he’s allowed to have and friends that are bad for him. Bea would know; she’s been learning these things in preparation for succeeding father as head of their house. “I guess,” Fernand hedges. “Who’s your father?”

“It’s a secret,” Jesse says, looking around like the leaves would snitch on him if he told. Then he pushes himself up and gestures for Fernand to lean down. “His first name is Leander. Don’t tell anyone!”

Somehow, learning the name of Jesse’s father tells Fernand nothing about whether Jesse would make a suitable friend - the question itself was parroted from things Fernand has heard his father ask before. He figures Leander is a good traditional name though and nods. “O.K. We can be friends.”

Jesse lets out a cheer and launches himself off the branch, landing on the brick pavilion below on both feet though the forward momentum knocks him over a second later. He catches himself on his hands and knees. “C’mon, Fernand, let’s go play!”

“That was dangerous!” Fernand cries. A niggling voice in the back of his head doesn’t want to seem cowardly in front of a new, younger friend, restrained only by the knowledge that Lady Avanna would show no sympathy if he hurt himself doing something foolish.

He finally decides to climb down carefully, just in time for Jesse to get distracted by a new person entering the courtyard. “Oh, Clive!” he says, and Fernand drops from the tree so quickly the bark leaves scratches against his palms. He wipes the pearls of blood drawn to the surface on his pants, hoping they don’t show against the dark cloth.

“Clive?” he repeats. Sure enough, Clive walks over, tall and gangly and cocking a thin blond eyebrow. At the same time, Fernand abruptly remembers their game.

“There you are, Fernand,” Clive says. Hearing his voice is always gratifying and abashing at once; Lady Avanna has been trying to refine his speech that way for years. “You were supposed to find us, not the other way around.”

“O-oh.” Fernand flushes to the roots of his hair, wondering if he could actually pretend he’d momentarily forgotten the rules of hide-and-seek instead of the infinitely more disrespectful truth that he’d forgotten Clive existed. “Um, I found this kid instead.”

“So I see. Good evening, Jesse,” Clive says.

“Oh, Clive, you’ll get this. What kind of horse is your neighbor - wait.” Jesse breaks off and frowns. “I mean, what do you call a horse that lives next door?”

Clive pauses, and in the absence of conversation Fernand frets whether he’s offended by Jesse’s lack of decorum or something Fernand has done. “I suppose it would be a neighbor,” he says dryly.

“Yeah.” Jesse turns back to Fernand. “See? It ruins the joke if you let them answer!”

“No, you ruined it when you straight up told him the answer,” Fernand says. Clive gives him a curious look. “What?”

“Nothing,” Clive says, affecting innocence. “Jesse, do you want to play hide-and-seek with us?”

“Yeah! I’m a great seeker,” Jesse announces.

“ _I’m_ seeking,” Fernand says.

Clive shakes his head. “We can take turns.”

...

He is only a little irked when he opens his eyes again, a far cry from the Fernand who announced he would rather die than kneel before Alm. Even then, the thought of the new emperor is not what raises Fernand’s ire. That honor goes to the unsightly blond mercenary snoozing to his left, both arms folded against the edge of the bed with his head resting atop them. His mouth is ajar to permit a trail of saliva to dribble down his chin.

“Jesse,” Fernand says. His voice comes out weaker than he intends it, and he’s almost glad that Jesse doesn’t respond.

Fernand pictures himself reaching out to jostle him awake. When he tries, though, he finds that his arm is bound tight enough to his chest to prevent any movement. He swallows, briefly unnerved, before telling himself that he does not require the use of his arms any longer. The new world has no use for weapons or knights without wielders.

“Jesse,” he says louder. The man sleeps like a rock, which is something that clearly hasn’t changed since their childhood. Fernand glares at the crown of Jesse’s head before resigning himself to a less-than-elegant tactic.

In the same movement he pivots his body, Fernand aims his shoulder for Jesse’s elbow, hitting his mark with perhaps more force than intended. Jesse startles awake, wide eyes holding Fernand’s unimpressed stare for a fraction of a second before he falls ass-first to the floor. Fernand can’t even glower at that undignified display; a sudden pain erupts from his shoulder, spreading across his collarbone towards his chest, and it’s all he can do to keep from showing it on his face.

“Mila, Fernand, what did you do that for?” Jesse yelps. Then his hands are on Fernand, broad and stable. One finds purchase at the crook where Fernand’s shoulder meets his neck, the other on the bed right next to Fernand’s hip to stop Fernand from making any other sudden movements that might inflame his injuries.

Incredible. As if Fernand is the unreasonable party here.

“Forget that,” he says through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“Here?” Jesse repeats, looking around the room. “Umm… Well, I meant to leave before I got shackled down, you know, but I figured I’d stick around until you woke up.”

“We’re not friends,” Fernand says. He doesn’t mean to hurt Jesse’s feelings, only realizes after the words are half out of his mouth that they could be construed as bitter. Fernand _isn’t_ bitter - he’s had more than a decade to get over it - but he finds that he doesn’t mind if Jesse thinks he is.

But Jesse just laughs, not hurt at all. “Come on, Fernand. We don’t have to be friends for me to want you to not die.”

Fernand thinks it would be fitting for him to wake up alone, actually. He notices Clive isn’t present, though of course, Alm has probably made him knight-commander or general of the army or any number of impressive titles to reflect his service. “I’m not dead yet,” he says. “Does that suffice?”

“You haven’t changed at all,” Jesse says. Fernand wishes. “If you want me to beg, I will. What the hell were you doing in Duma Tower? You were the last person I expected to see there.”

“What, hasn’t Clive told you?”

“Don’t really talk to him,” Jesse says with a shrug. “And he’s busy.”

“I’ll bet,” Fernand mutters. “Fine. I fought under General Berkut for Rigel during this past war. I vowed to slay Clive and made myself an enemy of the Zofian people, which is why this set up - ” He could not use his arms to gesture around the room, so he jerked his chin instead. His chest twinged. “ - is ridiculous and you should tell your emperor so.”

“Hey, hey, I know you’re trying to get rid of me but there’s gotta be a more convincing lie,” Jesse says.

Fernand hasn’t been trying to get rid of Jesse. He kind of wants Jesse to look at him with the same scorn Fernand had attached to Jesse’s name after Jesse had disappeared. It’s probably telling that they keep talking past each other, even after all these years.

“Ask someone else if you don’t want to listen to my answers,” Fernand says.

“Wait, no, it’s been so long since we’ve had a conversation like this! Lie to me all you want, I’m all ears,” Jesse grins.

Fernand closes his eyes, which Jesse clearly takes as an invitation.

“Any man would be lucky to - ”

“If you continue in this vein, I will attempt to strangle you, reopening my wounds and bleeding out on this bed, which is certainly worth more than both of our lives. Thus if you are truly interested in my survival, I advise that you shut your mouth,” Fernand says.

Jesse laughs loudly, though he does elect to spare Fernand from hearing the rest of his sentence. Instead he says, voice fond and deep, “Gods, I’ve missed you,” and it is somehow, impossibly worse.

...

Two months after the princess’s festival, Bea approaches Fernand after breakfast. At thirteen years old, she declared herself a lady and begun wearing dresses, ones that strike Fernand as vaguely familiar. She flounces – the only way Fernand can describe the way her skirts fluff up as she skips – up to Fernand and looks down on him, because despite being a girl, her age and early growth spurt means she still towers over him.

“Father wants us in his study,” she says imperiously, which is how she does most things nowadays.

Fernand frowns. “We just saw him at breakfast,” he says.

“Are you in trouble?” Bea smirks. She turns around, her skirt swishing behind her. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” Unlike Bea, Fernand does what he’s told. “Besides, he wants you too. Maybe you’re in trouble.”

He doesn’t remember the last time they were in trouble together, mostly because Bea spends most of her time with Father or Lady Avanna or in the garden, where she insists Fernand not bother her.

Lord Claremont, in fact, does not scold either of them. When they enter, he is seated at his desk, the window to his right casting his face in golden sunlight. In his hand, he holds a letter, which is not unusual. Fernand is expecting a letter from Clive; in the affect of his father, Fernand insisted on his own stationary, on which he dutifully catalogs the weather, and court gossip he overhears from Bea and Lady Avanna, and what new, horrible things the twins have learned each week. In return, Clive writes about Clair, newly one year old, his riding and sword lessons, and on modest occasions, encloses his secret experimentation with poetry.

Clive writes in straight lines and careful lettering, only occasionally smudged. But the letter Fernand’s father holds is penned in broad flourishes, and besides, contains only a single parchment.

“Fernand,” Lord Claremont intones. Fernand straightens.

“Yes, Father?”

Lord Claremont pauses, searching for words, which he evidently hopes to find in the contents of the letter. He purses his lips, eyes scanning the page. Fernand shuffles his feet, noticeably enough that Bea pinches his side, because she thinks she’s Lady Avanna who is always on Fernand’s case to stand still.

Lowering the letter, Lord Claremont says, “You didn’t tell me you made the acquaintance of Lord Savoy’s son.”

Perplexed, Fernand asks, “Who?” before his father’s tone registers – not reprimanding, only curious.

In response, Lord Claremont holds the letter out to Fernand. On closer inspection, it resembles Clive’s stationary not even a little. The parchment is thick and fine, the ink slightly shiny even dried. _To Lord Theodor Claremont,_ it reads. _My oldest son speaks highly of yours. My wife and I are hosting a dinner party for our younger son’s first birthday, and I hope I can count on your attendance. I believe Jesse would enjoy the company of someone closer to his age._

The letter – no, invitation – is signed Lord Leander Savoy.

“Oh, Jesse,” Fernand says. “He’s one of Clive’s friends, I think.”

“Obviously,” says Bea. “Fernand doesn’t have any other friends.”

Lord Claremont looks at his daughter, but Bea is an expert at ignoring him. “You must have made an impression on this Jesse,” he says.

“He’s a little weird,” Fernand says seriously. “He was climbing one of the king’s trees. I told him not to.”

“Father, did you have something to ask me?” Bea interrupts.

“No, Beatrice, I just wanted to inform you we will attend this dinner. All of us,” Lord Claremont clarifies.

“What!” Bea exclaims. “Sure, Fernand needs new friends but I don’t want to talk to this Jesse kid.”

“Then you may spend the evening with the adults or the other children,” Lord Claremont says. “I will brook no argument.”

“This,” Bea declares, “is your fault.” She glares at Fernand and, with another spin of her dress, storms off before their father can dismiss her.

Lord Claremont rests his forehead against his palm and closes his eyes with a deep exhale. “Thank Mila you haven’t your sister’s temperament,” he tells Fernand, who smiles with a quiet pride.

The day of the party, they set out for Jesse’s manor just after finishing lunch. The Savoy lands are located closer to the palace, where Princess Anthiese’s festival had been. Fernand remembers that ride had taken most of the day, and Aren and Dixon had complained the entire time, which in turn made Bea complain and Fernand wish he could meld into the seat and cease to exist.

So when Lady Avanna seats the twins next to Fernand in the carriage, Fernand prepares himself for four hours of nonstop noise.

“Ferrand,” Aren says. “Bea said…” He trails off, looking to the side like he’s forgotten the message he was supposed to deliver.

“This,” Dixon says solemnly. He holds out his hands, which are clasped together to create a ball.

“What…what have you got there?” Fernand asks, suspicious. He doesn’t trust the twins, and he definitely doesn’t trust Bea.

Dixon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either, keeping his arms extended towards Fernand. Fernand wonders how he ended up the only sane person in an insanely stubborn family and holds his palm underneath Dixon’s. Dixon drops a live, living frog into his hand. Aren shrieks, which scares the frog, which jumps out of Fernand’s hand, leaving a puddle of slime right next to Fernand’s thumb.

The frog disappears into Lady Avanna’s skirt, prompting Aren to shriek again, and Lady Avanna to jump to her feet, only the carriage has already stopped moving, so Lord Claremont grabs her by her shoulder and forces her back on the seat. With one hand, he deftly extracts the frog from Lady Avanna’s skirt, and with the other he opens the door to fling the poor thing outside.

“Sit,” he says to his thoroughly seated family. Bea covers her mouth with her hand.

It’s a bad ride.

By the time they arrive, Fernand is actually excited to find Jesse, because that means he gets to escape his family. Aren has cried twice. Lady Avanna started listing eligible bachelors from nearby territories in the last two hours and Bea made a game of shooting them down for increasingly nitpicky reasons, like the length of their eyelashes or the legibility of their letters. Dixon keeps discreetly untying Fernand’s shoes.

At long last, Father unfolds his arms and says, “There it is,” breaking his hours-long silence. They all look out the window.

Jesse’s manor is larger than Fernand’s, larger still than Clive’s manor. From the front gate to the portcullis, it takes another twenty minutes in the carriage, and when the trees finally break to reveal the manor proper, Lady Avanna lets out a slow exhale and murmurs, “Oh my.”

Beyond the portcullis is a magnificent courtyard, green and lush and blossoming with flowers of every color, every shape. A statue of a historic king Fernand recognizes from his texts towers prominently in the center; circling him are the two ends of the imperial staircase leading up to the front door, carved ornately from glossy wood. A set of soldiers in full plate armor descend immediately upon their carriage, opening the door and attending the horses.

Lord Claremont helps the twins out first so they can stretch their legs before offering his hand to Bea, and then his wife. Fernand climbs out by himself. Then they are escorted into the main hall, which boasts another set of impressive staircases, down which Jesse practically flings himself two seconds after Fernand crosses the threshold into the building.

“Fernand! You came! You came!” he yells, prompting the twins to shriek back at him.

Jesse throws both of his arms around Fernand, a breach of decorum so grievous Fernand freezes. “Um, hi,” he says.

Bea is going to mock him forever for this, he can feel it.

“Jesse, is that how we greet our guests?” a woman’s voice comes from the top of the staircase.

Leaping away, Jesse straightens at once. “No, ma’am,” he mumbles. Then he looks Fernand’s father right in the eye. “Thank you for coming, sir. Please make yourself at home.”

“It’s certainly our pleasure, son,” Lord Claremont says, just as solemnly. “We are honored to be here.” Though he addresses Jesse, he looks upward at Lady Savoy. With long dark hair, pin-straight, and gentle curves, she doesn’t resemble Jesse at all.

Lady Savoy meanders down the staircase, her hand ghosting along the florid bannister. Out of the corner of his eye, Fernand sees Lady Avanna still. Jesse’s mother walks with a familiar grace instilled in highborn children, an elegance as thoughtless as breathing. “Jesse wanted to greet you personally. You have perfect timing, Lord Claremont. The appetizers have just arrived,” Lady Savoy says. “Please, call me Elisabeth.”

“Theodor,” Lord Claremont says. “This is my wife, Avanna; my daughter, Beatrice; and my sons, Fernand, Aren, and Dixon.”

Fernand eyes Jesse, who at first glance is standing properly, with his shoulders held back and his chin straight. But his feet fidget minutely, clearly uncomfortable in his heeled shoes, and though his arms are ramrod straight at his side, his hands are curled into fists.

Gently bumping his shoulder against Jesse’s as he walks past, Fernand whispers, “You look like you’re gonna fall over.”

Jesse jumps at the contact but then his face breaks out into a grin and he runs ahead, taking the stairs two at a time despite Lady Savoy’s exclamation of, “Jesse!”

“I’m going with Jesse, Father,” Fernand says like a responsible son, and even waits for Lord Claremont’s approval before clambering up the stairs himself.

He hears the beginning of an exasperated “There’s no helping boys their age,” before Fernand is out of earshot. Jesse beckons to him from around a corner, where the halls split.

“I wanna show you my room,” he says.

“Don’t we have to go to dinner? Your mom said appetizers were served,” Fernand protests, but he walks over to Jesse anyway. He wonders if he’s the only kid Jesse’s age here. Clive’s family, apparently, had also been invited but baby Clair had caught some type of flu and his mother didn’t want to leave her.

“It’ll be there when we’re done!” Jesse calls, flashing another smile. “Here!”

He reaches a set of double doors near the end of the hall and opens them with a flourish. Jesse’s rooms resemble the master suite in Fernand’s manor: a large bedchamber sandwiched by three different closets, a personal privy, and a balcony. Though the sun is setting outside, the sunset and the lit lanterns make the room bright and warm. “Come look at what my father bought me,” Jesse says, darting inside to a desk set in the corner, clearly intended for studying purposes with a gilded set of books aligned neatly against the wall.

Jesse ignores them in favor of the slender rapier laid in front of them.

“Woah,” Fernand says despite himself, his eyes growing wide. The sword is a work of art, silver ornamentation forming the hilt and a neat, sharp blade protruding from the crosspiece. Fernand’s father hasn’t allowed him a real sword of his own yet, confining his lessons to practice swords, but here Jesse is, two years younger, with an honest fencing sword. “You know how to use this?”

“Not yet! But Father says he’ll hire an instructor,” Jesse says. Fernand surveys the length of the rapier again, and thinks it’s a little too long for Jesse, who still only reaches up to Fernand’s eyes. For now anyway. “He says any proper man has a sword like this.”

He looks back at Fernand expectantly, and Fernand flushes. “I-I guess so. But it’s dangerous to have around if you don’t know how to use it. Especially out of its sheath!”

Pouting a little, Jesse says, “I know that!” Then he smiles sheepishly again. “You wanna hold it?”

Fernand does. His father would be mad though, and dinner is still waiting… “Just for a bit,” he says.

The hilt feels cool in his palm, but there’s a weight that settles in Fernand’s hand when he picks the rapier up, one that has nothing to do with the metal he holds. He steps away from Jesse so he can settle into one of the stances he learned in his lessons, holding the rapier out in front of him. Jesse claps his hands together.

“I knew it,” he says. “You look really good with a sword. Like a knight.”

“You’re just saying that,” Fernand says, trying to hide how pleased he is. Lady Avanna is forever critiquing Fernand’s posture and footwork, and Fernand knows he isn’t as practiced as Clive is, but Jesse’s eyes sparkle in the evening sunlight, like he genuinely thinks Fernand is cool.

It’s embarrassing and thrilling in equal measure.

Afterward, Fernand makes Jesse sheath the rapier properly and store it away to prevent accidents. “Especially,” he says, imitating Lady Avanna, “now that you have a little brother.”

It didn’t seem possible before but Jesse’s smile grows even brighter. “Yeah,” he says. “I have a little brother.”

They miss the appetizer course but manage to sneak to the kids’ table, slightly smaller than the main table and set into a little alcove to the side, without drawing the attention of the adults. Most of the other kids are unfamiliar to Jesse; Aren and Dixon are the youngest, and the oldest is a purple-haired teenager a few years older than Bea.

Jesse’s brother is in a baby carriage at Lady Savoy’s side, at the head of the adult table. Even from here, Fernand can see wisps of dark, curly hair; the baby is the splitting image of his mother.

“That’s Jacob,” Jesse says happily. “Oh, and my father there.” He points out the round man next to Lady Savoy, with long sandy blond hair bound at the nape of his neck in a ponytail.

“He looks like you,” Fernand lies a little, because it’s something people say a lot to him when he points out his father.

“Yeah,” Jesse says, just as Bea reaches around some kid and grabs Fernand by the neck of his collar.

“Where were you two?” she says.

“None of your business,” Fernand says into his glass of cider.

“Beatrice, right?” Jesse says. Bea makes the kid sitting between her and Fernand switch chairs with her.

“Just Bea. Beatrice is so old-sounding,” Bea says, to which Jesse nods in agreement.

“What are you doing?” Fernand demands. “I thought we were too much of babies for you.”

“I’m incredibly bored,” Bea says. 

“Go talk to someone else then,” Fernand says. “Go find a _boy_ or something.”

“The boys here suck,” Bea intones, and then shifts her attention to Jesse. “So! Jesse. Why’re you friends with someone like Fernand anyway?”

Fernand aims a kick under the table at Bea’s ankle while Jesse says, completely seriously, “He’s fun. And he knows a whole bunch of things.”

Bea doesn’t wince and leans in. “He’s a bit of weenie though,” she says.

“I like that about him.”

Fernand considers burying his face in his arms but just then the servers come around again and place the soup course in front of them.

Bea sighs. “You two are kind of boring too,” she says.

...

The healer deems Fernand capable of leaving his bed a day later and rushes off after giving him a list of stretches and exercises to restore mobility in his arm. Fernand has enough experience with injuries and recovery to know that this release is premature, likely so that the palace healers can focus their attention on soldiers the emperor actually values. The fact that Fernand has been allowed to roam free, or as freely as his limited stamina affords him, suggests Alm has his hands full with rulerly tasks and has forgotten about Fernand.

Fernand can’t even imagine having the breath to cause trouble, but he still thinks he should be in a prison. He takes a short walk around the residential wing, pausing to sit whenever he starts feeling lightheaded. The palace is abuzz with courtiers and diplomats, people who have come to pay their respects to the conqueror king and people whose respects Alm will have to earn if he wishes to keep his title.

Fernand looks over them all and finds he cares little to learn their titles or their ranks. It’s not like he has any use for them personally.

By the time Fernand makes it back to his room, he’s ready to fall face-first into his bed and sleep for the next decade too. He’s barely taken two steps away from the door before Jesse kicks it open again.

“Fernand, you - you’re up?” His volume drops to a reasonable level at the same time the question itself changes. Turning to face Jesse seems like too much effort for what it’s worth, so Fernand keeps his back turned.

“Don’t raise your voice at the infirm, you brute,” he says. Annoyingly, his trembling fingers can’t manage to unbutton his coat. It had taken Fernand almost half an hour to properly dress himself this morning, and he anticipates it’ll take longer to divest himself of his coat and boots, but he’d be damned if he stepped into public looking anything less than immaculate.

“Sorry, I just… I talked to Clive,” Jesse says. Fernand can’t see his expression and is glad for it. There’s no accusation in his voice, just layers and layers of questions.

“Hm,” says Fernand, hard and flinty.

When he fails to elaborate, Jesse steps closer. Fernand feels his warmth approach from behind. “Hey. I’m sorry, all right?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Really? ‘Cuz I thought...I mean. I thought you were still mad about me leaving,” Jesse says.

Fernand finally manages to push one of his buttons free. Only two more to go. “It’s been a long time,” he says tiredly. “Besides, now we both… Let’s just say neither of us has room to judge each other.”

It’s Jesse’s turn to make a contemplative noise. His arms reach around Fernand to undo the buttons, deft, like it barely warrants thought. “It’s hard to believe. You were always the most excited to be a knight and protect your people and stuff.”

The rumble of Jesse’s voice lingers on Fernand’s skin long after the words dissipate. He allows Jesse to pull his coat off before retreating to the cool bed, still rumpled from his weight. “We were just children then,” Fernand says. “It doesn’t mean anything now.”

“Oh,” says Jesse, and even then he seems to be thinking of something else.

Fernand thinks about pulling the covers up to slip under them, but instead he just lies on top of them. His shoes are still on, which would have scandalized him while he was still serving Zofia. That Fernand is like a different person. That Fernand would probably be able to have a conversation with Jesse, would probably be able to think of some reprimand for shirking his duty and abandoning his friends and family.

While he’s thinking of all the things that Fernand would do, the silence stretches long enough to unnerve even Jesse, who if nothing else seems reluctant to leave on his own. Fernand sighs, silent enough to be a long exhale. “Goodbye, Jesse.”

Jesse jolts, first hesitant and then relieved. They really aren’t friends anymore. “I’ll see you later, Fernand.”

...

When they get home from Jacob’s birthday, Lord Claremont puts his hand firmly on Fernand’s shoulder and says he hopes Fernand will have a long, fortuitous friendship with Jesse.

Fernand looks up the word ‘fortuitous’ in the dictionary in the study. It means a good thing, like winning a game of dice. His father doesn’t know Fernand knows what dice are; actually, a few weeks later, Jesse teaches Fernand and Clive how to gamble like soldiers do. Fernand decides that must mean their friendship is going ‘fortuitously.’

He gets Bea to explain that Jesse’s family is some branch of the royal family. Fernand had seen the king on the 29th day of Princess Anthiese’s ball, and he has a difficult time reconciling Jesse with the imposing figure of Lima IV, decked head-to-toe in silks and gold jewelry.

When he asks Jesse himself, Jesse gets quiet and then says, “It’s not like we’re royalty though.”

Fernand looks at Jesse, who has worn through the patches on the knees of his trousers again. Parts of his hair are plastered to the side of his head with drying mud, and a week earlier he’d confided in Fernand that he’d accidentally fallen off during a horseback lesson and swallowed one of his baby teeth. Golden hair or not, Jesse isn’t the kind of person people usually allow to even _touch_ silk and jewelry. It makes sense he isn’t royalty.

“That’s good,” Fernand says. “I don’t think we could be friends if you were.”

Jesse smiles, the same way he always does whenever Fernand mentions their friendship. “Why not?”

“Because then you’d be a prince, and when Clive and I are knights, we’d be your servants, which means we can’t be friends,” Fernand says. He’s actually not sure there’s a rule that people can’t be friends with their servants, but he thinks there should be. He wouldn’t want to be a servant to his friends after all. It would make games pretty boring if one of them could just order the others to lose.

“Oh,” says Jesse. “I guess I’m glad I’m not a prince either.”

When Fernand arrives home, he asks his father about servant-liege relationships. Lord Claremont looks at him for a long time. If Fernand had to describe the perfect lord, his father would be his first pick: someone honorable, with the clarity of vision and purpose to perform his duty. He’s never been anything but fair.

“It’s complicated, Fernand.” The beginnings of concern tug the corners of his father's lips downward. There is a question in it. “A liege’s relationship with their people must be a specific kind. We have a duty to them, and they to us. Anything more than that makes things...harder.”

Fernand gives a decisive nod. “I thought so,” he declares, even though Jesse isn't there.

“Does this…” Lord Claremont struggles to ask. Fernand has never seen him at a loss before. “Does this have to do with your sister?”

“No. What’s Bea got to do with it?” Fernand says.

“What does Bea have to do with it,” Lord Claremont corrects. “Nothing, Fernand. Put it out of your mind.”

Fernand is a little curious but he isn't one to disobey an order. Besides, if it’s tied in with inheritance, it's not really Fernand's business. He's going to be a knight, not a lord.

Secretly he wonders if these are things Jesse, who will be inheriting his father's vast estate, must think about, but Jesse doesn't seem to hold the same regard for his lineage as Bea does. Fernand knows Jesse has lessons, but he's always finding ways to weasel out of them.

When Fernand thinks really hard about it, he supposes Jesse doesn't really fit in next to him and Clive, with their polished shoes and thoughtful decorum. They are people with dreams and foresight. Jesse likes making people laugh with silly jokes and cares about the small rodents he captures in the courtyard.

If it weren't for their fathers, Fernand isn't sure Jesse would be their friend at all.

The idea unsettles him, and he wonders if maybe it unsettles Jesse too, if that’s the reason he smiles without restraint - in another circumstance, he might not have had the opportunity to smile at them at all.

Fernand endeavors to invite Jesse to his own manor.

“It's smaller than yours,” Fernand says nervously when Jesse jumps out of the carriage.

He doesn't know why he feels this way. Jesse looks as happy as ever to see Fernand, and then he notices movement behind Fernand and gasps.

“A puppy?” Jesse cries, barreling past Fernand for the splotchy mutt struggling to leap out of Aren's grip.

“His name is Bear,” Fernand says as Jesse rubs his nose against Bear’s, relaxing minutely. The one thing his family has over Jesse’s is Bear, who happens to objectively be the best dog. “Our dogs had puppies. Lady Avanna let us have Bear. She’ll probably let you take one home too.”

“My father is allergic,” Jesse says. Bear snuffles sympathies against his cheek.

Jesse’s presence does not save Fernand from his afternoon lessons. Lady Avanna actually invites Jesse to join them.

“Your mom teaches you?” Jesse whispers when Lady Avanna takes up a rapier in front of them.

“It’s complicated,” Fernand says after chewing on his lip for a while. “She was my governess before my mother, um, passed away. But then Father married her, and she’s Aren and Dixon’s mother, so she’s kind of like mine. She still teaches us lessons. Father said he wouldn’t find a better governess anywhere else.”

Jesse studies Fernand’s padded armor, which bears, among the usual wear-and-tear blemishes, a few uneven patches courtesy of Bea and a dark ash mark from when Dixon had hidden it in the cook’s wood stove. “Your family sounds fun,” Jesse says.

The peculiar tingling in Fernand’s stomach returns, like loneliness can be transmitted by proximity. “You can visit whenever you like,” he tells Jesse. “Bear likes you too.”

It startles a smile out of Jesse - not his signature toothy grin but a shy smile, an accidental one. Jesse is still smiling when Fernand parries his sword so hard it flies out of Jesse’s grip, its blade catching in a nearby crate with enough momentum Fernand thinks it’ll snap in half. The rapiers are blunted of course, nothing like Jesse’s swords at home, but Jesse’s eyes grow so wide it’s as if he thinks Fernand is ready for a knighthood already.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Fernand says. “Clive is better.”

“Nuh-uh, that was really cool.” Jesse bites his lip. “Maybe Father will let me be a knight too.”

Fernand struggles to imagine a Sir Jesse. “It’s a lot of hard work,” he says. “There’s more than just swords. You have to follow orders, and know how to bow and greet other nobles, and there are like fifteen different ceremonies.”

“Yeah but you get to protect people, right?” Jesse asks. “That makes it worth it.”

Retrieving the sword, Jesse brandishes it at Fernand for a second before Lady Avanna comes back over to adjust his grip. Fernand doesn’t even tease him about it. The image of that future comes more easily now: him and Clive and Jesse travelling Zofia helping innocents. They’re taller - adults - each of them bearing the proud emblem of the kingdom on their lapels. Fernand hides his smile. It’s a dream that feels too distant to even hope for.

Characteristically, Jesse proceeds to complain for the next two hours as he sits in on Fernand’s comportment and history lessons. To his credit, both those lessons are incredibly boring, though Fernand does his utmost to internalize them. Lady Avanna has more patience than anyone else in their family, but she still ends up releasing them early in the afternoon.

Jesse runs up the stairs ahead of Fernand and is inspecting every nook and cranny of Fernand’s bedroom when Fernand gets there. He throws an old stuffed rabbit at Fernand’s face. “This is yours? Cute.”

“It’s Bea’s,” Fernand lies, snatching Sir Bun out of the air and placing him gently on the dresser.

Snickering, Jesse jumps onto Fernand’s bed and spreads his limbs out leisurely. “A day in the life of Fernand! If I hid out here, how many days would it be until I was as smart as you?”

“Well, first you’d have to actually listen to the lessons and read the book,” Fernand says, perching on the edge of the bed. Jesse rolls over and grins.

“I read books!”

“Name one,” says Fernand.

“Well, I listen to _stories_.” Jesse sits up and leans right into Fernand’s space. “Hey, this old guy visited my dad last week and said he came from the desert where he takes jobs beating bandits and stuff. That’s pretty cool, right? It’s kind of like a knight.”

Fernand scrunches up his nose. “But mercenaries fight for money. That’s not the same as fighting for the people.”

“What if there was a mercenary but he worked for free?” Jesse asks.

“He’d still have to pay for food and housing,” Fernand says.

Jesse falls silent, but Fernand can tell from his expression he’s only thinking, not discouraged. “What if,” he says slowly, “if I became a mercenary, then you and Clive could give me money so I’d be able to work for free.”

Fernand considers pushing Jesse off the bed, but from this angle, Fernand would have to pull and Jesse could put up enough of a fight to make the effort not worth it. “Is this just another idea so that you don’t have to go to your lessons?” he says.

Groaning, Jesse falls back onto the bed and wiggles in the covers. “I don’t want to be like my dad,” he says. 

“That doesn’t matter.” Jesse stills, letting Fernand extract him from the covers. Fernand keeps a firm grip on Jesse’s wrist even after he pulls Jesse back into a sitting position, staring directly into Jesse’s brown eyes. “Jesse. Stop running away.”

Jesse wilts. “It’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I just want to be normal.”

His head is bowed at just the right angle that his curly hair tickles Fernand’s nose, and Fernand has to learn away before he sneezes. On an impulse, he cards his fingers through Jesse’s hair and feels Jesse lean into his touch. “I think it’s amazing,” Fernand whispers, “to have the opportunity you do.”

“I’m not amazing,” Jesse says. “I’m just me.”

“It’s amazing,” Fernand says. “You and Bea. Our parents. You have the ability to protect people, more than a knight can. I think it’s the most important thing. Do you think think that’s stupid?”

Silently, Jesse shakes his head.

“Nobles have a duty to protect their people. Your house, your family… the fact that we met and became friends. It’s all because we’re nobility. Are you saying you want to give all that up?” Fernand continues.

“No!” says Jesse, looking up fiercely. Fernand jumps at his sudden movement, withdrawing his hand. “I’m just… You know me. I’m not ready for it. It should be someone like you, Fernand.”

“I’ll help you,” Fernand says. He sticks his pinky out, offering it to Jesse. “Promise. You’ll succeed your father, and I’ll become a knight, and Clive will do both, and we’ll make Zofia a better place for everyone.”

Jesse looks at Fernand’s pinky for a long time before he wraps his own around it. “O.K.,” he says.

Fernand curls his pinky tighter, trapping Jesse there. “This means you have to listen to your manners and law lessons,” he says. “I’m not gonna be best friends with someone dumb. You have to become the best lord ever.”

Giggling, Jesse looks up at Fernand. “Better than Bea?”

“Yup. You have more people,” Fernand says. “That means you have to be better.”

Jesse nods a final time, so Fernand releases his hold. Still, Jesse clings to his pinky a moment longer. “I promise.”


	2. The Misconception of Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puzzled, Clair says, “That’s Lady Celica’s crew, isn’t it? What was his name... Sir Jesse? You know him?”
> 
> “He’s a nuisance,” Fernand says, somewhat irritably. Clair scents weakness.
> 
> “Quite the catch, apparently,” she chirps. “They said he landed a strike on Duma. I’ve never spoken to him but he’s apparently a smooth talker? His face isn’t bad at all.”
> 
> “You women have bad taste,” Fernand says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w: somewhat explicit description of violence in the scene fernand walks into a snowy courtyard; for those uncomfortable with that, i'll summarize in end notes

Fernand doesn’t know whether he’s avoiding Clive or the other way around. Likely it’s both. The palace is large but it’s still only one building. He has no idea what he’ll say when they finally come face-to-face. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so inevitable if Clive were regularly leaving on missions, but apparently there’s a mountain of clerical work associated with his new title, the least of which is because of the sudden shortage of senior knights and subsequent influx of recruits.

One day Fernand turns a corner and spots Mathilda deep in discussion with three squires. Before she notices him though, he backtracks and opts to take a different route to the dining hall.

Largely, Fernand is ignored, not in the same way as when the palace belonged to Rigel, as an outsider, but as a spectre kept alive only for a few people’s attachment to the boy he used to be. It's enough to make him wonder if, back then, he should have shut up and laid down his life, followed his vows mechanically, served with his body instead of his mind. He’d thought such a life would have been hell, done everything he could to avoid it, and has ended up here anyway.

He doesn't let himself consider death. If Fernand's life was still his to give, he would have gladly let the witch take it and save him from this half-existence. It isn't. He can't remember a decision he made for himself. If he has become a tool more than a man, it is simply a fate befitting him.

Fernand spends a week steeling his nerve only to forget his resolve the second he sits down on a bench in the queen mother’s garden to catch his breath and Clive walks in.

Their eyes meet. Fernand half-thinks Clive will turn around and walk out again because that's probably what Fernand would do.

But Clive smiles and approaches, his gaze intent on Fernand like this is a welcome sight. “May I sit here?” he asks.

Fernand dismisses the question with a sharp wave of his hand. He doesn't have the right to give Clive permission to do anything, and an uncomfortable warmth curls in his stomach when Clive chooses to sit anyway.

Clive looks, frankly, terrible. Fernand imagines they both do, and isn’t that a hilarious thought: a man at the top of the world sitting beside a man who escaped the worst of it, and neither with the good grace to appreciate it.

They are both quiet for a good while. Clive is dressed in full ceremonial armor, the kind that reminds people of power but not danger. Fernand does not even carry his sword. He didn’t ask what happened to his old one, nor does he think an armorer would supply him with a replacement.

Even now, there’s a stubborn seed rooted in Fernand’s heart that refuses to apologize. He wonders if that’s what Clive came to hear, but he knows it isn’t. He’d feel better if Clive did come to gloat. Fernand would know how to respond, then. But this, sitting in silence because words would break the illusion that nothing is off-kilter between them and they are Clive and Fernand once more… Fernand can’t give Clive that. Not anymore.

“You look better,” Clive says. “Your coloring. I’m glad.”

Fernand looks at his hands. They no longer shake when he reaches for things. “Yes,” he says finally, because it’s true enough.

Clive turns his head to look at Fernand, who stays purposefully still. Somehow he knows what Clive is searching for: a moment of vulnerability so that he can say Fernand needs his help. It’s patently false, but Clive’s ears always close after he makes up his mind, so Fernand lifts his head without returning Clive’s gaze, staring instead at the gardenias.

“I didn’t recognize Jesse, not right away,” Clive says. Fernand can’t help but tense his shoulders - a mistake, and one Clive certainly notices. “He was worried. About you.”

“Foolish of him,” Fernand says, voice a little ragged.

Clive huffs a laugh. Hearing it brings tingles up Fernand’s spine. It’s a sound he never really noticed he missed, not until now. Clive’s laughter always was gentle and warm. “He ran up to me not a minute after we killed Duma, yelling about me putting you in danger. Python almost put an arrow in him, I think.”

The image of it is absurd, Jesse yelling at Clive, not because Jesse has particularly adept emotional control but that Fernand has ever been Clive’s to look after. “You won’t ask me what happened?” Fernand says.

Thrown off his rhythm, Clive pauses. “If you’d like to tell me.”

It’s not like Fernand is attached to secrets, but telling Clive freely feels like submitting to this new imbalance between them. “Lord Berkut,” Fernand says.

“We killed him.”

Fernand had heard as much, and it’s not as if Lord Berkut could have lived, not after everything else. Still, the admission, and the slight hardness in Clive’s voice, loosens Fernand’s tongue. “I saw him sacrifice Lady Rinea. I don’t know why he attacked me.” The corners of Fernand’s lips twitch upward, even as his eyes narrow. “Perhaps it’s in my nature to be betrayed by people I trust.”

To his credit, Clive only swallows silently. No flinch. “You made it out to the other side,” he says. “You’re still here.”

“What for?” Out of the corner of his eye, Fernand notices movement near the entrance of the garden, but it’s only a pair of passing pages, and when they notice Clive and Fernand sitting together, they scurry off. He wonders exactly how many people know their dirty laundry. “I’ve been thinking about it. The difference between you and me.”

“Fernand,” Clive says, sensing a shift in Fernand’s tone.

“Back then, I thought...what was I fighting for?” Fernand carefully doesn’t grimace, but if Clive’s face is any indication, he doesn’t do a good job. “My family was dead. My people, their killers. The only thing I had was… my oath. As a noble. And as Fernand. My beliefs. The principles my father instilled in me since childhood.”

Clive stills at the mention of Fernand’s family. When it happened, Clive had been the one to piece Fernand together, a bit clumsily but with far more care than they could afford, spearheading the resistance movement. Then the fighting had gotten serious and there was no time at all for Fernand to burden Clive more, so Fernand had gotten quite good at stymying his feelings. It’s something he knows has weighed on Clive since the Deliverance’s conception.

The thought of Father now, or even Aren and Dixon, barely springs to mind memories of his childhood home, abandoned to the revolt. They are like people he used to know, or people the Fernand he used to be knew, but no longer.

“I thought all of it was leading me to Rigel. There, I thought I could fight with purpose and dignity.” At last, Fernand looks at Clive. He wants Clive to tell him he wasn’t being foolish, and in the same measure he fears it. “But it meant nothing in the end. I wasn’t fighting for anything.”

Clive shifts, and it highlights the slight sliver of air between them. Side-by-side, neither their legs nor their arms brush each other. Fernand is hyper aware of that space, and so it seems is Clive. “You had friends,” Clive offers.

“No,” Fernand says, and asks, “Would you have killed me, if that’s what it came to? If Lord Berkut hadn’t gotten to me first, and I’d faced you, would you have done it?” And because he thinks Clive could lie to himself easily, if it comforted Fernand, he adds, “Would you have failed your oath?”

Clive is silent. Fernand doesn’t give him the choice not to be.

“I would have,” Fernand says. “I vowed it.”

He stands, a little unsteadily even though his injuries no longer tug at Fernand. Clive remains seated, not quite solemn but...sorrowful. Weighing his words in a way he didn’t have to as children. In the queen mother’s garden, surrounded by flowers, Clive looks smaller than on the battlefield. Fernand could almost pity him, if pity meant anything coming from Fernand.

“Thank you,” he says, “for the conversation, Sir Clive.”

“Fernand,” Clive says plaintively, but Fernand’s already turned his back.

...

Fernand is thirteen and Clive is fourteen when they have their first real fight, one that doesn’t dissipate overnight. Fernand isn’t old enough that his parents allow him to take a carriage by himself, but he lies to his family’s steward and is halfway to Jesse’s manor before sunset.

The magnitude of how much trouble he’ll be in doesn’t occur to him until a Savoy watchman flags Fernand over. When Fernand explains who he is, he is promptly removed from his horse and ushered into the main hall. He almost breaks into tears when Jesse shows up, curtailed only by the reminder of Lady Avanna’s scolding in the back of his head.

“Fernand?” Jesse sounds confused but he looks happy, like Fernand’s arrival is a surprise present.

Fernand sniffles pathetically. A servant appears behind Jesse, murmuring a low suggestion that the young master could take his guest up to his rooms.

“Come on,” Jesse says as he looks Fernand up and down. After some hesitation, he takes one of Fernand’s hands, still a little damp, into his own and pulls Fernand up the stairs. 

When they were younger, Jesse would insist on sharing his bed with friends, where they could lie spread-eagle without touching each other. At some point Fernand couldn't pinpoint exactly, that had become unusual behavior. Jesse pats his hand against his covers for Fernand to sit. Then he retrieves a handkerchief. “Did something happen?”

Fernand shakes his head but blows his nose into the handkerchief anyway. “I don't think Clive and I are friends anymore.”

“Did he say that?”

“No, but he's a squire now and I'm not yet, and all he talks about is girls,” Fernand says.

“Oh,” says Jesse. He takes the handkerchief back and folds it. “Do you… Do you not like girls?”

“It’s not that. I just don’t know the people he’s talking about.” Actually, now that Fernand is saying it out loud to another person, it strikes him that this is an incredibly inconsequential thing to be so frustrated about. He looks down at this hands. “It just feels like he’s leaving me behind. Sorry. It’s not like you can do anything about it.”

Jesse leaps to his feet. “I have an idea,” he announces before disappearing into one of his closets. “Wait right there!”

His voice sounds muffled despite the door being open, so of course Fernand walks over and peers in. Jesse stands surrounded by dresses, though it is immediately obvious that they are not his, on account that he doesn’t know how to put any of them on. Bunched up around his chest is a white petticoat, over which he’s managed to worm one arm through a blouse. A black-and-white scarf is wound tight along his head, the tasseled ends draped over his shoulders.

Loose articles of women’s clothing pool at Jesse’s feet in a ring. Fernand feels suddenly like he’s seen this scene before: a child surrounded by women’s clothes, skirts that went out of fashion several seasons ago but kept for sentimentality, not value.

He knows deep in his gut whose clothes these are.

Oblivious, Jesse wiggles until he’s wrestled the skirt around his waist. As he tugs the scarf into place, imitating long hair, albeit checkered, he pivots to face Fernand. The skirt flares out in the spin, then settles, giving Jesse a silhouette that might have been flattering on someone less gangly.

“Call me…Jessica,” Jesse says in a hushed whisper, which Fernand thinks is supposed to come off as demure but actually makes it sound like Jesse needs to clear his throat.

“No,” says Fernand.

He sees Jesse’s eyes widen, his lips parting in surprise, and then Fernand turns around and returns to the bed. He considers putting his face against Jesse’s pillow and yelling but it’s late, and also it should be Jesse who is embarrassed by this, not Fernand.

“Wait, Fernand!” Jesse calls, leaping out of the closet with the confidence of someone used to wearing pants. Not unexpectedly, he lands with one foot on the hem of his skirt and slips when momentum propels him forward but his other foot snags cloth. Jumping up, Fernand grabs Jesse by the front of his bunched up blouse. The delicate stitching on the sides rip loudly.

Both of them freeze.

“What,” Fernand says, drawing out the syllable so it can fill the silence between them, “are you doing?”

“I thought, well,” Jesse says. It has just struck him to be nervous, and he looks at the ceiling with a smile meant to reassure himself. “Clive’s hanging out with girls, and you said you don’t have any experience with them, so I thought…I could help you practice.”

He beams so earnestly Fernand goes red and pushed Jesse away, making him fall back-first onto the covers. “That’s,” he starts, and has to compose himself. “I can’t even begin to list the reasons that’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s not!” Jesse says. “Why’s it bad?”

Fernand opens his mouth, then closes it. If this is a dream he wants to wake up immediately. He sits on the bed. “What…What does your idea entail?” he says instead of answering. Maybe Fernand could just humor Jesse. His idea couldn’t be as bad as saying what Fernand just thought out loud.

“Imagine,” Jesse says. He makes a sweeping gesture with both hands. “You’re Fernand. A squire. I’m…Jessica. Also, um, a squire. We met while we were squiring. Together. And then we became friends.”

“Hm,” Fernand says when Jesse looks at him for confirmation.

“And now I’ve invited you to hang out at my manor alone. And you realize you’re a boy and I’m a girl…and we’re alone,” Jesse says meaningfully, his left arm still dangling out the neck hole of the blouse where he’d failed to find the entrance to the sleeve. “So what do you do?”

“I inform you this behavior is ill-befitting of our stations, thank you for your hospitality, and return home at an appropriate hour,” Fernand says.

“Fernand!”

“What?” Somehow Fernand finds himself wondering what Jesse wants him to say, while also _acutely aware_.

Jesse pouts and folds his arms together, the beseeching effect of which is lost on Fernand. “Are you fighting with Clive because you think he’s doing…whatever you just said just now?”

Probably the only thing Fernand wants to think about less than he and Jesse in this room together is Clive with someone else. The picture of it makes his stomach drop to his feet. Clive holding a girl’s hand. The pair of them disappearing into the garden. Clive’s letters, which have recently been full of names Fernand only vaguely recognizes, narrowing in scope until he only writes about one name at all.

“No,” Fernand says quietly. 

There’s a moment where Jesse’s eyes catch on his, making Jesse seem formidably discerning, but in true Jesse form the feeling dissipates as soon as he opens his mouth. “Then you have to catch up to him!”

Jesse lifts his chin, peering up into Fernand’s face with wide, dark eyes. Fernand can’t look at Jesse for long, not without his chest tightening, so he stares at the covers instead. But Jesse’s waiting on him; nothing Fernand can do silences the niggling voice in his head that he has to say something, or do something, but if Fernand opens his mouth he doesn’t know what will come out.

“I,” he says at great length, after searching for words and only coming up with frightening things like feelings, “don’t want to.”

“What?” Jesse asks.

“I don’t want to!” Fernand says. “I don’t want to kiss girls, and I don’t want Clive to either, and I don’t want to always be following after him, and I don’t really want to be a squire either!”

Jesse blinks once, twice, a few more times after that in the stillness that follows. His mouth is parted like he has no words for once. He closes it, his eyes shifting to the side, to the closet filled with old dresses, the door still ajar.

“What do you want then?”

Fernand’s lips thin. He wants to say he doesn’t want anything, which would be the mature answer, far more mature than curling up into a ball and crying some more. He’s not a child anymore; his father tells him all the time how tall and resourceful he’s becoming. But Jesse’s still like a ball of sun, gazing straight at Fernand like he honestly wants to know. Like nothing anyone says will ever change him.

“I just want everything to stay the same forever,” Fernand says quite miserably.

Jesse moves, just scoots over a few inches to close the scant distance between them until they’re sitting side-by-side, shoulders bumping, thighs just a sliver apart. “It is the same, isn’t it?” he says, staring straight ahead. From here, Fernand realizes how almost unrecognizable Jesse’s profile is now. Jesse’s always watching Fernand; Fernand knows the details of Jesse’s face more keenly than he knows his own, knows his family’s. But Jesse looks different from the side. The disappearing roundness of his face. The straight line of his nose, except where it turns upward at the end. The thin bow of his lips. Where his hair gently brushes the nape of his neck. “You and Clive will be knights. I’ll be a noble. That’s… what we always said, isn’t it? What’s different about it?”

Everything, Fernand thinks. They were so young then; growing up meant nothing more than knighthood and dreaming. The words mean something different now.

Jesse knows it too. Fernand sees through him.

“Jessica,” Fernand says. “Forgive the late hour. When I received your message, I couldn’t bear to wait even a day to see you again.”

“Ha!” Jesse snorts, and turns to face Fernand again. “That’s how you’d talk to a girl!”

Fernand turns pink but mulishly says, “I told you I don’t know any girls.” Bea certainly didn’t let him hang around when she was with her paramour. Jesse laughs again. “Like you can talk to girls either!”

Jesse grins as he unwraps the scarf around his head and drapes it on top of Fernand. “Close your eyes,” he says.

Fernand swallows. He almost leans back, but then Jesse’s hand drops to his wrist, his fingers, warm, enclosing around Fernand’s pulse. The air is warm also, heavy all of sudden but also alive and moving. He doesn’t speak, afraid to break something fragile. He’s afraid of letting it exist too. Jesse’s cheeks are red. Fernand closes his eyes.

He feels Jesse’s breath before Jesse’s lips are on his. Fernand keeps his mouth shut and jumps when Jesse licks him. Jesse’s hands have migrated upward, gripping Fernand’s forearms like he’s afraid Fernand might shove him away, which, well, is a ludicrous notion because at some point Fernand’s body had ceased responding to his brain.

Jesse kisses him until they both run out of air, and the room returns to itself when he releases Fernand. The lights are still on. Fernand licks his lips, on reflex, and flushes when he remembers the feeling of Jesse’s tongue there not a minute prior. Jesse seems to be thinking the same thing. His lips are wet, his eyes lowered.

“I don’t,” Fernand starts to say, and startles himself when his voice cracks. “I don’t think this is what Clive is doing.”

Jesse snickers. He stops, then laughs again. The image of Clive stealing away to some 14-year-old boy’s house for clandestine meetings is so absurd Fernand smiles too, and they both grin at each other atop Jesse’s bed. Fernand’s arms feel naked without Jesse’s palms against them.

“He’s missing out,” Jesse says. Fernand has time to roll his eyes before Jesse kisses him again, first on the corner of his mouth – missing slightly – and then full on. Jesse moves his mouth too much, with no practiced technique at all, but Fernand only thinks that means Jesse has never done anything like this either.

They fall back onto the bed; no, Fernand pushes Jesse onto the bed, onto his back, and Jesse goes willingly, pulling Fernand flush against him as he falls. His arm curls naturally around Fernand’s waist. His fingers tug the hem of Fernand’s shirt.

Fernand sits up, wiping saliva off his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “What are you doing?” he asks, aware, for a reason he won’t put a name to, that his legs are straddling Jesse’s thighs.

Jesse’s fingers retreat, the heat of them vanishing too. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t, I just, um, I wanted…”

He props himself up, not enough to unseat Fernand, but it brings their faces close again. Fernand feels their shared breath. He thinks he knows what Jesse wants, but he waits still for Jesse to stop babbling, to see if their thoughts are the same.

But Jesse says, “He’s your best friend,” and the warmth fades into nothing. They’re just Fernand and a boy in a skirt.

Fernand flattens his hand against Jesse’s chest, watches it rise and fall with Jesse’s breathing. “What if that’s not true anymore?” he says, finding his nails intensely interesting.

Jesse looks at his chest too. “What would it take for you to stop being Clive’s friend?” he asks.

“We…” Fernand thinks. Once, after the first time he caught Bea kissing a boy and she screamed at him to never talk to her again, he spent the next three months finding new ways to spy on her in the garden. And of course there was that summer right after Clair was born when Clive hadn’t been allowed to go anywhere and Fernand wasn’t allowed over, and they’d written each other letters almost daily until one of the couriers went to Lord Claremont in tears and demanded he teach Fernand some restraint. “If one of us died, maybe…”

But even as the words leave his lips, they strike Fernand of falseness. Certainly if Clive died, Fernand would swear no one else could ever replace him as Fernand’s best friend.

“Not if you fell in love?” Jesse says. “Then why’d you suppose Clive thinks any differently?”

Fernand doesn’t want to be on top of Jesse talking about love, so he stands up, and when Jesse grabs at his retreating hand, Fernand pulls Jesse up too. “Clive’s not falling in love,” he mutters.

“Give it a few years,” Jesse says brightly. It makes Fernand want to cover Jesse’s entire face with a pillow so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

He sighs. “I know we’re always going to be friends. I know that,” he says. The glow of Jesse’s happiness is too much for Fernand; he’s afraid to ask the next question, so he doesn’t.

He borrows some of Jesse’s nightclothes instead, and in the morning, a six-year-old Jacob barges into Jesse’s room and makes fun of them ruthlessly for “cuddling.”

Lord Claremont, when Fernand finally returns home, slightly more settled and a hell of a lot more embarrassed, folds his arms and stares at him until Fernand points out, like a coward, that Bea got up to a lot worse than visiting a friend without permission. Lady Avanna reminds her husband that Fernand is “getting to that age” and suggests that he should “have a talk, man-to-man, with his son,” at which point Fernand exited the conversation as fast as he could.

Clive writes Fernand a few days later. In his apology, he describes a cool new riding trick to employ while jousting and asks Fernand to help him practice the next time he comes over. The twins spot Fernand smiling at the letter and steal it, loudly crowing that Fernand has a girlfriend, which attracts Bea’s attention and subsequent ribbing that no girl could compete with Clive in Fernand’s heart.

None of it flusters Fernand so much as two months later, when a courier delivers him a truly heinous handkerchief. The material is nonabsorbent, thin and useless, and the pattern of it is a checkered black-and-white, matching none of Fernand’s coats.

Bea asks if he’s made an enemy at court. Hidden in the handkerchief’s folds is an unsigned note in a scribe’s even print: “A token of friendship.”

...

Jesse is friends with bandits: a red-haired brawny brute and a dark, scowly rogue, a duo so clearly battle-worn they share only one pair of eyes between the two of them. This is not information Fernand sought out. It’s none of Fernand’s business whichever rapscallions Jesse now consorts with.

He finds out because one day Fernand walks into the dining hall to get food and Jesse shouts his name from five tables over, where he’s sitting with his friends. Fernand gives the group a cursory once-over while Jesse gestures for him to join them, for some reason. Fernand turns away.

He doesn’t sit next to anyone when he eats.

Ideally, he’d take his food to his room to sit in silence but it’s a real hassle to cart a plate up there and back. He doesn’t want to impose on the cleaning staff more than necessary. The palace maids have been courteous, but in a way that betrays their confusion: they don’t know who he is or why he’s here, so their respect is not for Fernand but for a greater authority.

So he eats in the dining hall, like everyone else.

Another day, Fernand stops in the courtyard balcony for a bit of fresh air and looks down to find Jesse sparring with another man, too small for Fernand to make out the details of his appearance. They brandish real swords at each other, the clatter of metal ringing clearly all the way up to the balcony. Fernand’s hand twitches with the memory of training, of lining up with a dozen other boys and practicing sword swings until nightfall.

He extinguishes the thought. Back then, the work had seemed meaningful, each repetition making them stronger. But stronger to what ends? Nothing. There is no reason to pick up a sword again.

Mostly Fernand spends his days bored. Some days, he sits in the library from breakfast to supper, barely moving at all save for using the privy. Some days he doesn’t leave his bed until afternoon. The palace moves around him, like a river courses past a stone.

The king and the queen visit the south, no longer Zofia. Just more lands. Then the cold season begins, and the palace is fuller than ever, not just with soldiers and knights, but of more peasants seeking refuge. Reportedly, the chancellor was swamped with requests for food and supplies to be sent to every backwater village from the mountains to the coast. Clive’s knights had to be deployed to keep the peace, and no one was happy about it, least of all Clive who looks more and more haggard every time Fernand sees him - from a distance. Since the day in the garden, Clive watches Fernand in thoughtful, respectful silence.

So of course, it’s Clair who breaks the stalemate. Newly engaged and glowing, she breaks off from her ladies-in-waiting and strides over to him. A few eyes follow her; honestly, she glides across the hall, as sure of her steps as she is on the back of a pegasus.

“Fernand, there you are!” she announces. Her voice carries.

“I wasn’t aware I’d given you cause to look for me,” Fernand says. Standing next to her, he worries he might even be recognizable to people.

Clair presses her hand to her chest, displaying the sleek and shiny ring on her finger. “Whatever do you mean? It’s been so long. I heard you’d been gravely injured.”

She hadn’t visited him though. Probably busy, Fernand surmises. “Whatever Clive told you was exaggerated,” he says. “I survived, unfortunately.”

For a second, Clair looks stricken, but then she laughs, “Oh, Fernand, you can’t mean that.”

She fits right into palace life. Every gesture Clair makes is delicate, courtly, in a way Fernand never was, no matter how hard he tried to grind down his rougher edges. Her laugh is friendly, like Clive’s. Fernand swallows, knowing he’s hurt her. Even through the war, she hasn’t changed since childhood: she says exactly what she wants and people follow her because her heart is true.

Fernand could tell her exactly what he means. That death is easy, so of course he had been denied it. That she has no idea who he is now. That Fernand doesn’t know either.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” Fernand says instead. Clair beams, and Fernand can’t help but add, “Pity about your fiancé, though. I suppose there aren’t exactly any Zofian noblemen left to choose from.”

“Fernand,” Clair chides, but the smile remains. Fernand’s heart tightens. Clair belongs in a fairy tale. “He might not have any villas now but we’re working on it. Speaking of, have any ladies caught your eye?”

Fernand scoffs. “Come now, Clair. A commoner is one thing, but no woman will entertain a traitor.”

“You never entertained any women before the war either,” Clair says. “But now you have the time. Let me introduce you to some. My ladies-in-waiting think you mysterious and strong.”

Not so strong anymore, Fernand thinks. “I have no interest in women. Desist.”

Clair pouts for a bit before a sly glint enters her eyes. “Clive’s getting married in the spring.”

“I’m aware,” Fernand says. Though neither Clive nor Mathilda has approached him about it, the affair is a big deal in the palace, both in expense and as a symbol that life is really moving on after the war.

Little do people know, during one of the earliest nights of the war, Clive had approached Fernand a little after midnight. The palace had already fallen then, and the three of them had taken to the forests for shelter until they could reunite with the other Deliverance knights. Clive had spoken the first words, taken a new oath that he would see Zofia restored no matter the price. Mathilda and Fernand followed him. It was like watching the dawn of a new day, but the sun crests over the horizon and it is purple, not yellow, and nothing on earth will ever look the same again. But Clive swore that they would remain Zofia’s protectors, and hopelessly, Fernand couldn’t help but believe him.

And then that very night, Clive stopped Fernand before Fernand drew the guard rotation. He was holding Mathilda’s hand then, so tightly their knuckles were white. “It’s us against the world, isn’t it?” Clive asked.

“I don’t care much for the world,” Fernand had answered. “What is it?”

Mathilda and Clive shared a look. Fernand knew their request intimately before they spoke. “We don’t know what the future holds,” Clive said. “So we’d like to make all our vows now. Just for us.”

And Fernand had nodded slowly. Then, under the light of the moon, so far from either of their estates and families, Fernand swore them together on Mila’s sweet earth.

“I’m not in love with your brother, Clair,” Fernand says.

Clair covers her mouth, her eyes going wide. But Fernand knows what she was angling at. It’s hardly the first time she’s made that insinuation, and she’s hardly the first person. “I just thought you might be feeling lonely. Are you talking to anyone?”

Fernand is not. But he opens his mouth to say, “I’m just tired,” at the same time Jesse bursts into the hall and their eyes lock.

On Jesse’s heels is his crew of musclemen, the red one first, then a slender swordsman with squinty eyes and a strange metal headband, and then the scarred ruffian bringing up the rear. Jesse smiles and waves. Fernand makes it a point to look away, but not before Clair notices his distraction and turns around.

Puzzled, she says, “That’s Lady Celica’s crew, isn’t it? What was his name... Sir Jesse? You know him?”

“He’s a nuisance,” Fernand says, somewhat irritably. Clair scents weakness.

“Quite the catch, apparently,” she chirps. “They said he landed a strike on Duma. I’ve never spoken to him but he’s apparently a smooth talker? His face isn’t bad at all.”

“You women have bad taste,” Fernand says.

Clair continues as if he didn’t say anything. “He does strike me as somewhat familiar, but I don’t really see him much in the palace… Pity he’s common.” But then she stops, and her eyes narrow, and Fernand knows something in his face has given him away. “No? Not from Rigel, surely.”

“You were young then,” Fernand says. “I’d be surprised if you remembered him.”

“What!” Clair exclaims. “Jesse… Wait, Jacob’s brother? The one who ran away?”

She looks back at Jesse, who like always hasn’t taken Fernand’s dismissal to heart and is talking animatedly with his gang. He laughs boisterously and takes it in stride when no one else does. 

“You were close to him, weren’t you? You and my brother. I remember that.”

Fernand says nothing. He and Clive didn’t talk about it much, after. Fernand had thrown himself into his training with even more vigor. Clive brought it up, once, but Fernand’s grief was something he couldn’t understand.

“You’ll hurt yourself if you scowl any harder,” Clair says. She perks up. “You still like him, huh?”

“Quiet,” Fernand says.

But something Clair said flips a switch in Fernand. Suddenly, Jesse is everywhere, even without being physically present. Fernand notices tittering women, the ones who wear their best dresses and come in groups to watch the knights spar, and he wonders who they giggle for. If they prefer a clean-cut gentleman like Clive, as upstanding as he is off-limits, or if they like a more rugged type, the men who are unquestionably human. He hears for the first time one of the songs the bards are composing. Most are about the romance of the king and his queen, crossing the continent in tandem to reunite at the feet of the gods, but a scant few have been commissioned to showcase the others: a ballad about star-crossed Clive and Mathilda; about a beautiful witch who disappeared from the battlefield as soon as day broke; about a Rigelian hero ordered by his king to support the usurper.

And there’s one about Jesse. The bard calls him the desert king. A commoner by blood, the king learned of a cruel bandit named Grieth and sought to end his pillaging. The king brokered an alliance with a disguised Queen Celica. And when at last the desert was free of Grieth’s reign, the desert king stuck his blood-streaked sword into the sand and pledged to protect the land with his life.

The song doesn’t spread as far as the others; calling a common man a king rings close to treason, and of course the embellishments make the story seem mythical rather than romantic.

But Fernand sits down on a bench to listen to the whole thing, and he doesn’t move until long after the bard finishes his performance, collects his coin, and wanders off.

It’s been eleven years since Fernand last saw Jesse. Two more than the number of years Fernand knew him. 

Could he have changed so much that even a noblewoman like Clair would call him a fine match? Like her fiancé, Jesse is a war hero. A godslayer, even. The thought is discomfiting, not that Jesse has wound up with admirers but that he has all that power and still looks at Fernand the same way. Which is the lie: that Jesse is different or that he is the same?

And then Fernand runs into Jesse’s scarred lackey in the stacks. It catches him off guard; Jesse wouldn’t be caught dead in a library, so Fernand had assumed as much about his friends.

“Ah,” says the man, the only indication of his surprise. His expression doesn’t change at all, even as he looks down at Fernand. He’s much taller up close.

“Excuse me,” Fernand says with every intention of sidling past. But the man doesn’t budge an inch.

“If you don’t feel the same way about him, just reject him already,” the man says.

If Fernand needed any more proof that the gods were dead in the dirt, it would be this. He resists the urge to look skyward. “I think,” he says evenly, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man makes a neutral noise and then says, “Deen.”

It takes Fernand a second to put together that he’s introducing himself. Fernand doesn’t particularly want to give his name to someone like Deen, but rudeness requires its own energy. “Fernand.”

Deen inclines his head. “You haven’t said two words to him yet. The rest of us actually have to listen to him pine, and it’s pathetic.”

“He’s not…pining.” Just saying the word makes Fernand’s nose scrunch, which in turn makes the corner of Deen’s mouth curl upward. It’s a scary look on him.

”Guess you’d know better than me,” Deen says. The way he speaks, he slurs his words. Fernand wonders how they met anyway. What kind of things Jesse must have been through to fall in with guys like Deen. “I’ve only had to listen to him describe your eyes fifty-seven different times while he was drunk, but you’re the expert.”

There’s nothing special about Fernand’s eyes but he looks at the floor anyway. “You don’t have to listen,” he says. “Dump him on his ass and leave.”

“S’bad etiquette to treat a king like that.” Deen says it like a joke, albeit not one where he expects any laughs, but Fernand still stiffens.

“Don’t tell me there’s some truth to that desert king nonsense,” he says.

“Hmph,” Deen says. “The song’s rubbish. But it’s his dream. A desert country of mercs. No kings, no commoners.”

It actually sounds like Jesse. Like a stab in the heart. But it’s nothing new. Fernand exhales sharply, the ghost of a laugh. “You have the wrong idea about us,” he says. “Jesse’s not chasing after me. He had me, and he decided his desert country was more important.”

Deen eyes Fernand in a manner he can only describe as menacingly speculative. “So you’re the deal he ran away from,” he says. “Thought maybe he was jumping an engagement or done a crime or something.”

“No, nothing like that,” Fernand says. “Jesse was… He was noble through and through. Zofia was worse for his departure.”

“Hm.” Deen grunts. “That’s a heavy burden too.”

The burden is the point, Fernand wants to say. It’s the whole reason duty, and nobility, matters. But that’s not something a mercenary would understand, so Fernand just composes himself and says, “So it seems.”

...

Fernand is knighted the same month Jesse’s brother turns ten. When he walks into the party at the Savoy manor, he is stopped six or seven times by different lords and ladies who congratulate him on his appointment. “Zofia is blessed,” a minor baron tells him, pressing a flute of champagne into Fernand’s hand, “to have dedicated men like you and Sir Clive in her service.”

A lot of them mention him “and Sir Clive,” understandably since they grew up attached at the hip. Clive is around here somewhere; he and Clair should have arrived earlier. But Fernand decides to look for him later. Instead he takes the stairs by two, stopped only by an elderly chamberlain who directs him out to the balcony overlooking the teeming forest behind the Savoy manor.

The night is a little brisk, but the air clears Fernand’s head when he steps outside. Jesse has his back to him, his elbows pressed against the rail of the balcony, his chin resting on his palms as he gazes into the woods. The click of the door behind Fernand catches his attention, but he doesn’t turn around immediately.

He wears a dark red velvet doublet with intricate yellow-gold embroidery around the collar; the fabric clings to the curves of his chest, pulled taut around the shoulders. Fernand hears the smile in his voice when he says, “Come here often?”

“Too often, regrettably,” Fernand says, and then Jesse pivots, leaning back against the railing. The moonlight glances off his brow, his high nose, and the hard angles of his face. But the rest of him is bathed in the leisurely glow emanating from the firelit manor. He opens his arms to Fernand, who ignores them.

“Congratulations,” he says. “You did it.”

“Was that ever in doubt?” Fernand asks. Jesse laughs and envelops him in a full-body hug, the kind Fernand has only ever known Jesse to do.

“No,” Jesse rumbles, close to his ear. “Never.”

Fernand makes a noise – that’s all it is, not a word, nor agreement, nor invitation – but he leans slightly into the inescapable warmth of Jesse, and Jesse adjusts so that he has an arm slung tight around Fernand’s body, holding Fernand to his side while they both look out over the balcony.

Then after another second, Jesse’s arm falls away, and the lingering warmth in Fernand’s chest just makes its absence more apparent.

He speaks to dispel the feeling. “Jacob looks well. Lady Elisabeth too,” Fernand says.

Jesse looks down at the bannister. “Better now,” he agrees. “Sorry we didn’t make it out to the ceremony.”

Fernand bumps his shoulder against Jesse’s. A few years earlier, Jacob had caught sickness, and despite the best healers in the country he’d never really recovered. Though his spirits never wavered, the assumption was he would never be able to travel far from his manor. Lady Elisabeth was particularly shaken by the news, bedridden for months on end with grief.

It had changed Jesse, to know his family’s honor rested upon his shoulders. He wore his sword now at his side, sleek and sterling and proud. And when he spoke of his studies, it was always with a little bit of sadness.

“Well, you didn’t miss much,” Fernand says. “Just, you know, enough wine to fill an ocean, enough food for an army, and six hours of pretending to remember who Lord Remington of Braxy is.”

“You made that name up,” Jesse says.

“Did I though?” Fernand challenges. This strategy, he thinks when Jesse smirks in response and the warmth in Fernand's belly bubbles over, backfired. He clears his throat. “You look good in that. The red is flattering.”

Jesse looks down at his doublet like he’s forgotten what he put on. The crest of the Savoy family is embroidered over his breast.

Fernand coughs again. “It’s…well-fitted.”

Sheepishly, Jesse runs his hand through his hair, mussing it, but taming his curls is a lost cause anyway. “Elisabeth made me wear it. It matches Jacob,” he says, turning a little pink. He smiles at Fernand though. “I’d like to see you in these colors.”

“Please,” Fernand scoffs. The Claremont colors are earthen green and brown.

“I think you’d look good,” Jesse says. He grins as he rakes his eyes across Fernand’s body. “Imagine it. In five or six years. You could be my wife.” He laughs when Fernand smacks him on the shoulder, then catches Fernand’s wrist before it can retreat.

“What horrible misfortune befalls me that you’re the only one who will have me?” Fernand grumbles, letting Jesse lace their fingers together. Even in the settling night, Jesse’s hand is still warm.

“Everyone else is just intimidated by your beauty,” Jesse says. “Also you still say a lot of mean things, but it’s O.K. I like that part of you.”

Fernand looks at their intertwined hands. He could untangle them and smack Jesse again…but he lets them be. Taking advantage of the lull, Jesse leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Fernand’s mouth.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Fernand says. “Someone will see.” He doesn’t move away though, letting his eyes fall to Jesse’s collar, popped open a few buttons to expose a few inches of his chest, which would probably earn him a scolding if anyone saw. 

“No one will see,” Jesse reassures him with a confidence ill-befitting a man who has definitely been wrong before.

“You,” Fernand starts, but he doesn’t have any words for the tumultuous emotions roiling through his chest. He puts his forehead against Jesse’s shoulder, near the crook of his neck. This close, everything is just Jesse: his warmth, his scent, the stabilizing pressure of his arm pressed against Fernand’s. Jesse smiles into Fernand’s hair.

“Fernand,” he whispers. Fernand feels the movement of Jesse’s lips through his entire body. “I – “

“Don’t,” Fernand interrupts. “Don’t, please.”

Jesse doesn’t. He just holds Fernand close to him, and Fernand allows him, taking in the stillness between them for a few more moments. Then he draws away, unclasping their hands.

Jesse’s mouth is drawn into a line, but his eyes are open and searching. Honestly it’s hard to look at him, to feel the full intensity of his attention. Fernand lays his palm flat against Jesse’s face and turns it away. “You have your family,” he says quietly. “And I have mine. You’ll be a lord, and I’ll be a knight.”

That peculiar sadness flashes across Jesse’s face before he steps back and looks up at the stars, slowly appearing in the black of night. “The estate should be Jacob’s,” Jesse says. “By law, he’s the legitimate heir.”

“He is,” Fernand says, and neither of them have to point out that the future where Jesse’s brother recovered enough to succeed their father grew more distant by the day. During Jesse’s childhood, Lord Savoy had Jesse instructed in fencing, but as Jacob grew weaker, he’d phased some of Jesse’s lessons into military history and diplomacy. Jesse had little patience for it all but he endured it. “But you’ll do it anyway. Because you love your brother.”

After a long silence, Jesse nods. “Yes,” he says. 

The word is final, lingering between them even after the breeze steals it away.

...

The king and queen don’t make it back until midwinter, stalled by an early snow that clogs the roads. When they finally return, tired but safe, the palace throws a small feast. It isn’t festivities worthy of a king, but in the deep of winter everyone agrees that a conservative celebration is best.

Despite everything, Fernand is still around, mostly because no one has made him leave yet and he doesn’t have anywhere to go. He thinks about leaving a lot, especially on rowdier days where everyone is inside all at once. Like what if he just stood up and walked out the front gate and was never seen again?

But he would freeze to death in the snow, probably going out in some undignified way like slipping on a patch of ice, and for no purpose. So when the feast comes around, Fernand goes.

It’s actually the first time he lays eyes on Alm again, after all this time. Wearing his father's crown, the king sits at the head of the table, Celica at his elbow. Beside him are his most trusted retainers: the chancellor, a mustachioed silver-haired man; a high priest in full regalia; Prince Conrad, in an aristocrat’s finery; and Clive and Mathilda, in polished plate armor.

“Come now, Fernand,” Clair says, drawing his attention. She wears a snow blue gown embedded with hundreds of sparkling crystals. “This is a joyous occasion.”

“Surely your betrothed objects to you speaking with other men,” Fernand says.

Clair titters, but obligingly steps away. “He’s fetching me champagne. Promise you’ll dance tonight. It doesn’t matter with whom.”

Fernand doesn’t promise. His wounds have healed over, but he has to be careful not to strain himself. The muscles in his arms are still tender; exertion for any length of time winds him quickly. But it’s all right. It’s not like there’s anywhere Fernand must hurry, and he has no energy for dancing.

Near the end of the first hour, Clive rises from the table and offers Mathilda his hand, and the two gracefully descend to the ballroom floor. More people fall in next to them, once they begin to dance, filling the space with spinning couples. Fernand recognizes the dances from his youth, even, but he turns away and slips out into the hallway.

In contrast, the rest of the palace is quiet. The guard patrol still cycles, but the bustle is largely absent. No butlers scurrying about, no squires in the halls, no clerks running amok. Outside the snow has started again, a light dusting of frost washing the cobblestone pathways white. Adrift, Fernand watches it from a window.

No one stops him from stepping outside. Beneath Fernand’s feet, the snow crunches, crisp in its freshness. He feels tiny particles of ice patter against his face. His satin shirt, cut in the latest northern fashion according to Clair, provides little protection in the face of wind and water. But Fernand ventures farther into the courtyard anyway. He thinks Valentia Castle isn’t much to look at, not compared to the splendor of manors in Zofia. There are no statues, no trees or flowers outside of designated gardens. This particular courtyard the soldiers use for training, so most of it is flat, the obstacles removed to optimize space. But in the winter, blanketed in snow, its emptiness strikes Fernand as lovely and freeing.

He stands in the center of it all until he can no longer feel his legs and his bare cheeks burn with cold. When Fernand turns to go back inside though, Jesse is there, framed in the doorway, looking out at him. It’s too dark to see his face, but Fernand feels his gaze intently.

Jesse approaches when Fernand makes it apparent he won’t go inside so long as Jesse’s in the way. “Hey,” he says when he’s close enough to be heard. Over Jesse’s doublet is a fur mantle – not as thick as one meant to be worn outside but a far cry better than Fernand’s shirt. “You’ll get sick out here.”

“Maybe I want to,” Fernand says. “I wanted to see if I could still feel cold.”

Jesse looks at him. “Can you?”

“Yes.” Fernand probably needs to get out of these clothes quickly; not only can he feel every icy breeze, the cloth of his shirt and hose are wet and freezing fast.

Chuckling, Jesse unclasps his mantle and drapes it over Fernand’s shoulders. Fernand feels the difference immediately and shudders, the cold made all the worse for the knowledge of warmth again. “Come back in,” Jesse says.

Fernand wants to close his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Jesse in front of him, blond curls flying every which way in the wind and speckled with opalescent snow. Jesse’s cheeks are rosy pink; Fernand’s probably are too. Presumptuously, Jesse tugs on Fernand’s hand. He’s wearing gloves but the contact startles Fernand all the same.

“Not yet,” Fernand says.

Jesse leans forward. “O.K.,” he says, and then they stand there some more. Jesse makes a concerted effort to look Fernand in the eyes, which Fernand only reluctantly allows. “Fernand…What do I have to do so you’ll stop ignoring me?”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Fernand says. His life would be a lot easier if he could just pretend Jesse doesn’t exist. “I don’t know.”

Jesse exhales, unhappy, but instead of pressing the issue he looks off to the side. “You know,” he says. “Back then. I almost stayed. I never wanted my dad’s title, but I thought I could do it. If you were mine.”

“Jesse,” Fernand says, harsher than he intended.

“I’m in love with you. I always have been.”

Probably Fernand has ice in his veins, for how quickly all heat leaves him. It’s the first time Jesse’s ever said it aloud. Fernand had never allowed it before. It was just another thing they couldn’t get right. Maybe in the past, he wanted to hear those words even when he protested otherwise, but not now. Especially here, in Valentia Castle, Fernand didn’t want to hear them.

“You don’t have the right to say that to me.” Fernand keeps his words admirably level, but his fists clench, pulling away from Jesse’s hands. A little shocked, Jesse steps back, but wanting to be heard, Fernand follows until only a scant few inches separate their chests. If Jesse moved even a little their noses could brush.

“Fernand - ” Jesse tries, his hands coming up to wrap around Fernand’s arms, just above his elbows.

“Do you know,” Fernand interrupts, his voice going low, “what happened to House Savoy?”

Jesse doesn’t speak but he goes stiff, which is answer enough. Suddenly frenzied, he searches Fernand like he could scry the answer from Fernand’s face.

“Jacob didn’t make it to adulthood. He succumbed to illness two years after you left,” Fernand says. The muscles in Jesse’s jaw clench, and Fernand doesn’t pause before continuing. “Lord and Lady Savoy were never the same after losing their son. But they were lucky. They didn’t suffer long. They were killed in the uprising. The manor was set ablaze. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

Fernand swallows. His blood is pumping in a way it hasn’t since, since Lord Berkut. He thinks if Jesse says anything, he wouldn’t be able to hear it through the pounding, but he’s wrong.

Jesse says Fernand’s name, and Fernand hears it with every part of his body. Jesse’s voice cracks on the second syllable and the brokenness of it echoes long after the sound is gone.

Of course, Fernand knows that pain like a second skin. He’d wanted to share it with Jesse. He’d wanted to hurt Jesse.

One of Jesse’s hands releases Fernand’s elbow, rising to rest on the back of Fernand’s neck. Even through the glove, it’s cold. “Will you tell me,” Jesse says, quiet and devastated, “what happened to House Claremont?”

Against Fernand’s better judgment, he lets Jesse hold him. He can feel every detail of Jesse’s gloves against his bared skin, feels every bump in the animal hide and every rough stitch. “They killed Aren in his bed,” Fernand says, and the words come easily; he’s carried them inside him for so long they’re apart of him. “We found Dixon on the perimeter. He almost escaped, and then they shot him in the back.”

Mathilda had found him, body so mangled she couldn’t tell which twin it was. But Fernand could.

“Bea fought them.” Of course she had. Took down a few too; Clive and Fernand had discovered their bodies next to a washboard, so beaten it was nearly broken in half. Fernand hadn’t given them the dignity of a proper burial, just laid them out in the sun and let them rot. “They bound her and Avanna in the courtyard and made my father come to them.”

This part, Fernand only knew from hearsay. But he knew every word of it, verbatim.

“Said they’d let them go if he gave himself up. They put him in chains, made him watch as they burned his daughter and wife alive. Only then…did they let him die.”

The only thing they’d recovered of the girls had been bone. Lord Claremont was strung in front of his manor, the first thing his son saw when he arrived home.

Jesse looked sad, but he didn’t know anything. All of it…had been years ago. Years Jesse had turned his back on. They didn’t belong to Jesse, no more than these feelings did.

“You don’t know me. Not anymore,” Fernand says. Neither of them has moved. They are statues in the snowy courtyard, looking into each other’s eyes. “So tell me again that you love me. Say it honestly.”

Jesse stays silent. A ghost. Fernand steps back, breaking contact. He shakes his head, just a bit, and looks past Jesse to the door. One foot at a time, Fernand makes himself walk, until he’s through the threshold and shedding tiny flakes of ice on the palace floor.

...

Fernand is about to settle into bed when something hits his windowsill. He pauses, in case he imagined it, but then a second stone clatters against the glass. Wrapping a robe around himself as he goes to investigate, Fernand opens the window.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Jesse waving up at him from the ground. Fernand stares down at him. It would be pretty funny to just…shut the window and go to sleep, he thinks. But if Jesse is discovered by a gardener or something, he’ll get in trouble or, worse, wake up the rest of the household and then everyone will know he snuck past the guards just for Fernand.

“You are ridiculous,” Fernand says when he finally makes it outside. Jesse grins even wider when he sees Fernand hasn’t bothered to put on anything other than trousers under his robe.

“And you’re excited to see me,” Jesse says.

“I should throw you in the stocks. I was sleeping.”

But if anything, it just makes Jesse happier that Fernand got out of bed anyway. He pulls Fernand into his arms so Fernand’s back is against Jesse’s chest. Every day it gets easier for him to do that; it won’t be long before Jesse is taller than him. “I was in the area and I just thought there was no way I could go back without seeing you,” Jesse says next to Fernand’s ear.

“And what were you doing in the area past midnight?” Fernand asks.

Jesse shakes his head. “Real boring stuff. Dad sent me to go talk about…tariffs or something in Arowenda. Was on my way home.”

Fernand reaches out to lightly thump Jesse on the head. It’s a practiced movement, even with Jesse behind him like this. “You should have stayed there until tomorrow. It’s dangerous to travel at night.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have gotten to surprise you like this,” Jesse says. “It’s romantic, right? I’ve always wanted to do this.”

Fernand rolls his eyes, but Jesse’s chest is quite comfortable so he stays put, even as Jesse crouches to sit down, his hands around Fernand pulling Fernand into his lap. “We should go inside. Someone could see us.”

“Stay out here a little longer,” Jesse pleads. “The stars are out. They won’t see if we hide behind this bush.”

“You’re too easygoing,” Fernand says. “It’s going to get you into trouble some day.”

Jesse exhales slowly, pressing his face against the back of Fernand’s shoulder. “I’m always in trouble with you,” he says, but he sounds happy, his arms curling around Fernand’s stomach. These days they don’t get too many opportunities to just be alone. Most of being a noble is public, performative.

Clive probably suspects. Fernand speaks to Jesse differently than he speaks to Clive. Perhaps their families know too; at least on Fernand’s end, Father doesn’t really hound Fernand about marriage like he does Bea. It’s a fantasy, of course. But they’re young. It doesn’t hurt to dream.

“Show me your hand,” Fernand says. Jesse obliges, letting go of Fernand with one arm to hold his hand out in front of them, fingers spread. Fernand lines his hand on top of Jesse’s. As he thought, Jesse’s hand is the same size, but wider where Fernand’s fingers are longer. Satisfied, Fernand turns Jesse’s hands so their palms face up. Jesse has a lot more callouses than noblemen typically have - not as many as Fernand and Clive, who spend most of their time armed, but enough. “If you keep practicing you might even qualify for a knighthood.”

“Heh. That’d be something. All three of us fighting together.” It’s not something Jesse could conceivably pursue, but imagining it brings Fernand back to their childhood. They used to build forts out of wood planks, flour sacks, and sheets, then defend them with wooden swords against imaginary bandits. Jesse would always abandon his post trying to invent new, wilder stories while Fernand refused to leave the fort unguarded, with Clive mediating. Once, Jesse find a garter snake and threw it into the fort, an ordeal that ended with a long lecture about respecting wild animals.

“You were such a stupid kid,” Fernand says.

“Hey, where’d that come from?” But the protest is half-hearted at best.

“Nowhere, I just…” Fernand thinks he wouldn’t go back to those days, even if he had the choice. He remembers being so anxious about…everything. How other people thought of him, and what he was going to do with his life, and whether he could make his father proud. He was desperate for it. Probably, he didn’t have to worry so much, since he ended up like this. “I was just thinking about when we were kids. I wouldn’t have believed things would end up like this when we were older.”

Jesse hums, the vibration of it seeping into Fernand’s core. “But it’s good, right?”

“It’s good,” Fernand says.

He could fall asleep right here. It’s a pretty mild autumn night; though Fernand isn’t appropriately attired, the air is content, and the warmth of Jesse wraps around him like a cocoon, making it easy to just rest his eyes. In some near distance, two owls call to each other, echoing the tones of each other’s voices. The ground is uneven where Jesse sat, so a few hard clumps of dirt and twigs poke Fernand’s legs where he spills out of Jesse’s lap.

So easy is the silence that Fernand almost doesn’t register when Jesse breaks it. “I always knew though.”

“Hm?”

“That we’d end up like this. I always wanted it. Way before you caught on.”

Fernand pulls away so he can turn and stare at Jesse. “Why? I was a brat back then.”

“I suppose…I thought it was cute you knew what a porcupine was.” Jesse grins.

“I hate you,” Fernand grumbles. He doesn’t remember when Jesse started saying every line like he was reading it from a story book, but it makes it difficult to know when to take him seriously. “You did not.”

“Then I guess it was because you were never impressed with me,” Jesse says. “Made me wanna impress you more.”

“Well.” Fernand doesn’t really have words for that. “You did,” he says begrudgingly.

Jesse smiles, falling quiet. But he opens his arms wider to beckon Fernand back into them.

“I have a confession,” Jesse whispers after Fernand settles in. He doesn’t wrap himself around Fernand this time, and he falls silent like he’s waiting for something.

“What is it?” Fernand prompts.

But Jesse doesn’t respond right away. If Fernand concentrates he can hear the gears whirring in Jesse’s head, which is not usually a good sign. He shifts, and startles when Jesse grabs his waist to hold him in place. “Wait. Stay like this. Just for a bit. I…lied when I said I was just in the area. I wanted to see you alone.”

“What, and you think I’ll be mad about that?” Fernand asks.

“No,” Jesse admits. “I…had a fight with my dad. He said, well, it doesn’t matter. But afterward all I could think was I needed to see you.”

“Jesse.” Fernand aims for disapproval but misses by a long shot.

“You always make it sound so easy, and it just feels like I – I wasn’t meant for it,” Jesse says.

“It’s not easy,” Fernand says. “It never is. But there’s no one else who would do a better job than you. I believe that with all my heart.”

Jesse laughs, once. He sounds tired. “I just. Close your eyes for a minute? Imagine, Fernand. Just the two of us. It doesn’t matter where. I’m not a noble, neither of us are. I’ve got my sword, you’ve a lance and your wits. Just the two of us, free to go anywhere. We could build ourselves a house. We could clear out bandits if we wanted. People would be so thankful they’d offer us food, or we could hunt. Get a dog. Plant a garden. That’s all I want.”

Fernand sighs, and turns around so his legs straddle Jesse’s, even though Jesse tries to stop him. He looks Jesse in the face. The corners of Jesse’s mouth are downturned. “Oh, Jesse,” Fernand says. He reaches up, combing his fingers into Jesse’s hairline, pushing his blond curls back. Jesse’s forehead is hot, his eyes feverishly intent on Fernand’s. Slowly, Fernand leans in and presses his lips against Jesse’s. “It’s a nice thought.”

“Just a thought?” Jesse asks.

“You know why,” Fernand says. “It’s not possible.” Jesse’s fingers tighten at Fernand’s waist, scrunching the robe, before all at once he deflates.

“I see.” Jesse laughs again, but it’s not very funny. “I see.”

“Come here,” Fernand says, getting to his feet. “Let’s go in. It’s late.”

Unsteadily, Jesse allows Fernand to fuss over him, stripping of his travel attire in favor of an identical gray-blue silk robe. The next morning, Lord Claremont barely bats an eye when Jesse joins the family for breakfast with an embarrassed laugh, though Bea gives Fernand a double-eyebrows-raised look. 

“Next time, you don’t have to worry about inconveniencing us. We can afford it if your whole family visits,” Fernand’s father jokes.

“I’ll tell my father you said that,” Jesse – Fernand later finds out – lies.

It’s the last time they see Jesse. The last time Fernand sees him, for a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w: basically jesse says "i love you" to fernand for the first time, and because fernand Definitely Doesn't Care about jesse anymore, fernand describes the gruesome deaths of both their families bc he knows it'll hurt jesse....................good stuff


End file.
